


On Your Horizon

by 234am



Category: Final Fantasy VII
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Amputation, Blood and Gore, Cid Highwind Swears A Lot, Cloud is bad at relationships, Dreams and Nightmares, Eldritch, Eyes, Horror, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Parasites, Puppet Cloud Strife, Vincent has conflicting Feelings about Cloud, Vomiting, background Cloud/Reno, background Cloud/Sephiroth, mentions of abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-31
Updated: 2017-10-31
Packaged: 2019-01-26 19:22:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12564436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/234am/pseuds/234am
Summary: In a quiet little town, Vincent Valentine has mastered the art of coping. His life is safe and boring until it's not.





	1. cracked eggs, dead birds

**Author's Note:**

> My prompts were "what if Cid were the monster" and "Your mother warned you about the crows feasting on the eyes of prophets".

☼

By the glow of a flickering orange street light, Vincent Valentine locks up. He tugs at the door, feels the satisfying rattle of the lock firmly caught, and turns away from the used bookstore to begin the long walk home.

It is only 6:30pm, but it feels much later. Full dark out, a fat orange moon hangs in the sky, ringed in stars. The street is empty, not a sound to be heard but the rustle of dried leaves skittering across the pavement and the rattle of skeletal tree branches clawing skyward.

The cold wind tugs at his dark hair and red scarf, slips its icy fingers under his coat, runs chills up his spine. He hunches against it, hands shoved deep into his pockets, and curses himself for not wearing something warmer.

A crow's caw echoes nearby, ugly and raucous. He flinches, picking up the pace. The bird calls again, and is answered, all up and down the street. He does not see them, but hears the flutter of wings, too close. Shuddering, he turns at the next corner, practically running now.

Their calls become distant, lost beneath the slap of his shoes against the concrete. Two more turns, ten more blocks, and he's at the iron gate of his little one-bedroom home. The gate creaks and slams behind him. The rose bushes lining the walkway catch at his coat and scarf, a thorny welcome home. He slows to a stop in front of his door, bent over his knees to catch his breath, long hair falling into his face.

The crows do not find him that night.

His phone buzzes in his back pocket. Straightening up, he pulls it out to see what Tifa wants. She’s the only one who ever texts him. His other friends gave up long ago.

{are you coming to the party?}

Sighing through his nose, he unlocks his door and lets himself in. He types a one-handed response as he hangs his keys on the hook by the door and flicks the hall light on.

The yellow-orange gleam of eyes just past the boundary of light startles him so badly that he drops his phone. It clatters, bounces, and lands face down on the runner, between him and the eyes, which have retreated.

Reproachful, the cat yowls at him.

" _Chaos_ ," Vincent says, dragging his hand down his face.

He hasn't slept much lately, leaving him feeling on edge and off-kilter, jumping at shadows. Groaning at himself, he yanks his scarf off, sheds his coat, drops them both onto a wall hook. Then he kicks his shoes off, leaving them with their heels against the wall, nice and neat. He crouches to pick up his phone. There's a new dent in the corner of the protective case, but otherwise it survived another fall unscathed.

{I havent decided,} he finally texts back.

Then he holds his hand out--not the prosthetic, but the real one, clicking his tongue. Chaos creeps out of the darkness, stiff legged. Vincent holds still as the mottled black and orange tortoiseshell snuffles at his fingers, and his reward is to get nuzzled and meowed at.

"Hungry?"

Chaos chirrups and trots away, pausing at the end of the hall to watch him. When he stands to follow, the cat hurries forward a few more steps. The process of going and stopping and going again continues all the way into the tiny kitchen. Vincent leaves the lights on in his wake, and tells himself he is not checking the darkened corners for lurking somethings.

Chaos hops up onto the kitchen counter by the can opener to wait. Yowls for good measure, as if his human might forget to feed him.

Vincent does not forget.

He gets the bag of dried food down from atop the fridge, and the half can of wet from inside, setting them on the counter. When Chaos makes the expected dart forward to nose at them, Vincent shoos him off the counter. The cat glares balefully while winding between his legs, making the steps he needs to make to fetch the empty food dish precarious.

"Chaos, please," he mutters, to no avail.

He washes the dish in the sink and dries it, ignoring Chaos's increasingly distraught meows. When he finally, finally fills the bowl and sets it down, the cat practically throws himself into the food, eating with none of the grace and finesse cats are known for. Vincent shakes his head, equal parts charmed and amused.

His own dinner is an impressive half a peanut butter and strawberry jelly sandwich and a glass of apple juice. He has so little appetite that even eating that much is a chore.

As he cleans up, Tifa texts, {dont be broody. come hang out with your FRIENDS for once}

He props his hip against the kitchen counter as he replies, {I dont have a costume}

{you still have time. ask yuffie to help!}

The idea of asking Yuffie makes him groan. Chaos looks up, still chewing, and since his human is only being the usual amounts of weird, he goes right back to his dinner.

{Ill think about it. Im going to bed}

{aww. nini vin}

He does not, in fact, go straight to bed.

He goes to the living room, lined with shelves, and spends several minutes deliberating over what to read. His books are divided between those that he has read countless times and those he never quite gets around to. Despite his best attempts to choose from the latter group, he still somehow ends up with a well-worn copy of a horror mystery under his arm as he makes the climb upstairs.

The top floor is a converted attic, a large open space split between where he sleeps and where he works at home. Briefly, he considers making a detour to the computer, but he feels too exhausted for emails.

His four poster bed sits beneath a large, round stained glass window depicting a tangle of roses around a moon and sun. He lays face down on the bed, not even changing out of his clothes. The weight of the day presses down on him. That and his cat, climbing up onto the small of his back to settle into a tight, purring ball of satisfaction.

Sleep creeps up, catching him off guard, and he's soon snoring softly into his pillow.

☾

He sits in a cafe, at a little round table near the windows. The view outside shows a foggy forest, shafts of sunlight giving it a warm, ethereal look. Inviting him to go out there and explore, but he knows he shouldn't.

Cloud grins at him, gesturing with a paper coffee cup to illustrate some heated point in the debate they're having, the topic of which Vincent has forgotten. His eyes are deep pools of ocean blue that Vincent can't stop staring into. He feels uneasy at the flash of green watching him back, jealous and hungry.

The coffee cup isn't a cup at all, but his prosthetic. Cloud waves it, making the hand flop up and down. Exasperated but charmed, Vincent shakes his head and looks away.

The stump of his arm is not healed. Blood gushes from the ragged wound, a hot, crimson waterfall that spills over the edge of the table, into his lap, and makes a slow spreading pool on the floor. He feels detached, as though it's normal, and feels no pain.

The arm Cloud holds is not false. The fingertips are dark with rot, the tendons stiff and creaky. Cloud smiles, thick blond lashes hiding cat's eyes, and bends the stiff fingers to form a loose o-shape. He lifts it, bobs it near his mouth, lewdly working his tongue against the inside of his cheek. 

Vincent swallows bile down even as hot desire coils low in his gut. He can't look away, can't tell Cloud to stop.

Cloud is blue eyed and sweet when he climbs into Vincent's lap. The dismembered arm crawls down his back, claws scraping against each notch in his spine. Then Cloud's mouth pushes against his, and he forgets everything else but the wet slide of tongues and lips for a blessed eternity.

As the pressure builds, pleasure reaching a crescendo, the back of his neck prickles. He pulls away, ignoring Cloud's whine of disappointment, and looks around. The cafe is gone. They're in the forest, perched on a smooth, mossy rock.

Something is watching them.

Hundreds of somethings. The barren branches of the trees creak, weighed down by the sheer amount of black, feathery bodies on them. The crows begin to caw, their cries a cacophony of noise that sounds like laughter. They found him at last. They'll feast tonight on the eyes of a seer who saw too much.

Cloud catches his face in cold hands, smiles against his mouth, whispering sweet promises. It's not Cloud, not really, but a green eyed devil with claws digging into Vincent's flesh. Blood beads up and drips down his cheeks like tears.

An echoing bellow cuts through the rising screams of birds. Two more times, the great beast barks, as it barrels into the clearing, black fur rippling beneath a tide of eyes that manifest and fade away. The thing's face sloughs away to reveal a skull with too many teeth, blazing blue flames dancing in the sockets.

The crows scatter. Cloud is gone in a wisp of smoke, hissing.

Vincent slumps to the ground, feels sticks digging into his sides. He cannot move as the massive beast approaches. Cannot turn away from the radiating heat when it bends to inhale his scent.

_Say my name,_ a rough voice tells him, but he can't speak.

Guilt crushes his ribs, makes him gasp and choke. He squeezes his eyes shut. If he could speak, he would be unworthy of uttering the other's name. A litany of apologies fills his head as he feels his life slipping away.

_Don't. Ya gotta wake up._

☼

Vincent jerks awake, his arm numb and tingling from being pinned underneath him all night. His stump chafes irritably, punishment for not taking the prosthetic off before falling asleep. Tinted sunlight shines in his face, making him squint. He groans, shifting awkwardly onto his side. Chaos glares sleepily at him from the pillows.

He grabs his dream journal from the bedside table and shuffles downstairs. Chaos comes darting past halfway down, nearly tripping him. A clatter in the kitchen indicates the beginning of begging for breakfast. Yawning, Vincent wanders in to feed the cat, then fixes himself some burnt toast and coffee. He takes his lackluster breakfast into the living room and pauses.

A battered stuffed animal sits in his favorite chair by the window. Once, it was a friendly black dog with bright blue eyes. Now its fur is worn away and faded gray, covered in mismatched, colorful patches where the felt became too thin and split apart. The eyes are chipped and loose; one droops down sadly. One of the floppy ears is missing. The collar around its neck is too dirty to make out the childish scrawl in black marker, the name illegible.

"That's not where I left you," Vincent tells it.

It, of course, doesn't answer. Nor does it protest when he moves it to the arm of the chair so he can sit down.

Over his lackluster breakfast, he writes down the details of the dream that he can remember. His handwriting is a cramped scrawl with lots of loops and sharp points. His descriptions are clinical and lacking in the emotions he grappled with in the thick of dreaming.

When he finishes, he sits back, rubbing at the spot between his brows. The stuffed dog's stare is distracting and judgmental. Vincent picks it up and sets it on the table with its back to him.

"No one asked you, anyway."

His phone rings, sparing him from further stimulating conversation with his childhood plush. He shifts up off of the steady vibration against his rear, fishing the cellphone out of his back pocket. After his exchange with Tifa the night before, he half expects Yuffie to start harassing him, but is instead pleasantly surprised.

He answers with a flat, "Cloud," which betrays none of the tangled up emotions caught behind his teeth.

"Hey, Vincent."

A long stretch of silence follows, in which both men listen to the other breathe. Faintly, Vincent can hear the scratch of a pen on paper. He closes his eyes, unable to think of how a normal phone conversation is supposed to go.

Cloud eventually seems to remember he is on the phone. "Do you want to meet up for coffee?"

A curl of dread creeps up his spine, soon smothered by the warm flutter in his stomach.

"Alright."

"Usual place?"

"Hm. When?"

"I've got your packages, so... I can make excuses to be there whenever."

Vincent tugs at yesterday's shirt. He needs time to get cleaned up and changed. "An hour."

"Okay, see you."

Vincent sits motionless with the phone still against his ear after Cloud hangs up, gazing unseeingly straight ahead for several minutes. Then, with stilted movements, he puts his phone down on his thigh and picks up the journal to review the dream. It used to be easier to separate fact from fiction, back when his dreams were simpler. Now it all bleeds together and he struggles to pick out the threads of prophecy.

The idea of Cloud kissing him is laughable, and while idle fantasies have been pleasant, Vincent knows better than to get involved with his closest friend. The theatrical amounts of blood is unlikely, as well, unless he gets caught in a prank. His phobia of crows features in almost all of his nightmares, never amounting to anything. Which can only mean the truth is buried in metaphor and symbolism that he is not awake enough to process.

Sighing, he drags himself off to get ready.

The usual spot is a cafe across the street from the bookstore. Cloud’s ugly motorcycle already leans in a parking space out front, a stack of packages strapped to the back.

Cloud himself waves through the window from their usual booth, half-smiling. He holds two cups, one no doubt whatever sugary disaster he favors now and the other hopefully something as black and bitter as tar, almost hot enough to burn.

When Vincent gets inside and takes his seat, he's not disappointed. The drink is exactly as bracing as he'd hoped. He nods his thanks.

"How's things?" Cloud asks, after several enjoyable minutes of silently nursing their drinks.

"The same as ever."

Vincent does not ask, but Cloud nods and says, "Yeah, same." He gestures with his drink. "Tifa giving you the third degree about the party?"

"As always."

Cloud laughs shortly into his cup, looking away with fondness. He still lives with her and Barret, the three of them not in a relationship but raising orphaned teens together all the same. Vincent has never asked after the particulars of how that came to be. Cloud never struck him as family inclined, though, always running off to avoid his responsibilities. Always making poor life choices, like quitting college early and spending his savings on that bike. Vincent thinks it must be liberating to be able to make such impulsive decisions without regret.

He studies the blond out of the corner of his eye while pretending to watch the other patrons. Cloud favors turtlenecks and bared arms, but today he wears a jacket, and he's kept his riding gloves on too. It's strange.

And then it's not, because Cloud turns his head to see what holds Vincent’s attention. A dark bruise climbs up near Cloud's jaw, disappearing behind his ear.

The dream's meaning slots into place.

Vincent has no business saying anything, but he blurts, "Are you seeing that man again?"

Cloud's expression goes brittle and frozen, then crumples as he hunches in on himself. "I... couldn't help myself," he mutters, looking anywhere but at Vincent. "Are you going to tell Tifa?"

"I hate idle gossip."

The blond exhales, too relieved. He tugs at his collar, though it can't possibly cover a bruise that high up. "... Thanks."

"Don't thank me." Vincent stands, no longer comfortable with being there, with Cloud, in a public space.

In all the years they've known each other, Vincent has watched Cloud and a man with cat green eyes circle around each other, explosively destructive but unable to stay apart for long. Anyone caught up in their orbit gets caught in the crossfire. Few of Cloud's exes come around anymore. Even some of his friends have found themselves targets of that man's jealousy.

Vincent remembers the last time he was cornered by cat green eyes. Remembers his skin crawling with revulsion. Remembers the haze of red falling over everything. But not what happened, only that his friends had to bodily drag him away, and he’d broken his prosthetic into pieces. And that damn bloodied smile, smug because Cloud would always come back.

"Give me my packages. I need to get to work."

"...Okay."

Cloud hangs his head, but gets up and goes out to his bike. He doesn't try to cajole for more time. After he hands off the packages, he gives a weak wave, then gets on the bike and drives off. Vincent watches him go, heart heavy, and pretends he doesn't hear the crow cackling at him from the cafe's roof.

He hefts the packages and steps out into the street. His thoughts are distant, scattered, so he never sees the truck speeding down the road. A dog barks, loud and right behind him. Vincent stumbles, drops his packages, and falls to the side just as the truck goes speeding by, horn blaring. The driver spits curses out the window over blasting pop music.

Crouched in the gutter, eyes wide and heart hammering, Vincent stares around. He can't find any signs of a dog. Only passersby giving him sidelong looks, concerned but not enough to stop and ask if he's okay.

Feeling especially foolish, he gathers up his packages, checks both ways, and hurries across the street. He lets himself into the bookstore and slams the door behind him. The closed sign flaps in the window. Technically, opening was over two hours ago, but locals know the store opens when Vincent feels like it and not a minute sooner.

For the next hour and a half, he takes his time working on small, quiet projects. He catalogues the new arrivals and sets up a display shelf near the front of the store. He dusts and vacuums, and he re-shelves books. He even fixes some of the Halloween decorations when he finds a paper spider lying on the floor beneath a window.

When he finally flips the sign and unlocks the door, a few regulars are already waiting. They pile in with polite murmurs, drifting off into the shelves. Reno brings up the rear, grinning and brandishing a bag of donuts.

"Hey, Valentine."

"Reno."

The redhead follows him back to the counter. Setting the bag down, Reno leans against the counter, arms folded on the surface, and watches Vincent like he's the most interesting man in the world. Vincent frowns, sitting in his chair, a book held loosely in his fingers.

"What do you want?"

"Needin' any help this week, bossman?"

"Did Rufus get tired of your sass again?"

Reno laughs, uproarious enough that other patrons look over in consternation. "What, _no_. He'll never get tired of me, I'm too pretty and fun!"

Too late, Vincent remembers that Reno is Cloud's on-again-off-again... something. Friend with benefits, maybe. If _he_ noticed the thing with that man was back on, then surely Reno would have. And Rufus wouldn't want him moping around, slowing productivity. He’s never asked what kind of work they do, but assumes something involving cubicles and board meetings, given their predilection for suits.

Carefully, like he might spook the redhead, Vincent lays the book down and scoots his chair closer to the pc. It takes him a minute or two to pull up the ledgers. Reno fidgets the whole time he checks the numbers to see if he can afford a temporary employee.

"...How long?"

"Uh. I dunno." Reno picks at the cuticle of his left thumb, peeling the skin back. "What 'bout 'til the first, and then we'll see?"

"Alright. 1050 gil an hour, five hours a day. Will that suffice?"

"That'd be great, man." Reno's shoulders sag with relief. "Whatcha need doin' first?"

"Make coffee."

The rest of the work day goes without a hitch. Reno has worked for him before, always in between jobs. Having an extra pair of hands isn't necessary, but it's nice. At closing time, Vincent doesn't feel utterly drained. Reno's smiles are easier, more natural, if edged in sorrow.

"Really appreciate ya lettin' me crowd your space, yo," Reno says. "Ya wanna ride home?"

The distant call of a crow decides for him. Vincent nods.

Reno drives a battered old sports car, something he's always sinking money into and crooning over. He never quite has enough to fix it properly. It makes the drive to Vincent's house with minimal incident, only rattling ominously and making a weird grinding noise when pulling to a stop.

Vincent gets out and counts himself lucky nothing combusted.

"Text me for opening tomorrow?" Reno suggests, leaning with his arm draped over the back of the seats to peer out the passenger window at Vincent.

"Certainly."

"Later, bossman."

Then Reno is gone, clattering off into the night. Vincent goes inside when the red tail lights are no longer visible, assuming that the car will hold up for the rest of the journey to Reno's crappy apartment.

The ritual is the same as before-- coat, scarf, boots left at the door; cat fed; dinner; a book; and bed.

Only, as he stands at the end of his bed, he frowns at the stuffed dog returned to its place on his pillows. Try as he might, he can't remember moving the plushie.

"How did you get back up here?"

Scratched blue eyes stare blankly. The plushie sits there, silent and still, exactly as it should. No answers are forthcoming.

Sighing, Vincent settles into bed, and reads until he can't keep his eyes open.

☾

Alone in the book shop, which isn't unusual, but the shelves are dusty and empty. He pecks at the keyboard, though the PC's monitor is broken and smoking.

Something scurries by out of the corner of his eye. He turns, but it's already gone. He can hear its claws scrabbling across the floor. Can hear hundreds of them chasing each other up and down the aisles. The shelves rock back and forth from the force of so many bodies knocking up against them.

_Why won't you leave me alone,_ he demands, voiceless. _I deserve this!_

Lucrecia's laughter echoes through the store.

He doubles over, clutching at his head. Pulls at his hair, until he has thick clumps of it in piles at his feet. He hasn't thought of her in years, not really. The deep, indescribable longing that never leaves him doesn't count, surely.

_I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'M SORRY._

Unable to stop himself, he digs his fingers into his chest, clutching at the shirt. Then he starts scratching, rubbing the flesh raw beneath his sleeve. Before he knows it, he's cut through the cloth, left deep, bloody gouges behind. The old scar throbs as though new.

His back _crawls_ , itchy and horrible. He can't quite reach to satisfy the itch. Groaning, he yanks his shirt off and squirms against the edge of the counter.

It's not enough.

He stumbles away from the counter, staggers into the back. Empty, rotten cardboard boxes lie in heaps in the corners. Moldy books, long forgotten and never read fill the shelves. As he walks by them, they slip forward, hitting the floor with thumps that stir up clouds of dust. His nose runs, clear snot that goes red and fills his mouth with copper.

As he staggers forward, the room changes, seamlessly fading out until he stands in the forest. Wet dew soaks through his pants legs. He can't see anything but the smoldering wreckage in front of him, crumpled against the side of a solid oak tree. Pieces of a barbed wire fence lie scattered around, the snarled thorns curled towards the sky. The car alarm blasts wildly, fading in and out over the flashing hazard lights.

He can see himself inside, unconscious. A solid wood post went through his chest, narrowly missing vital organs. His arm lies on the ground some five feet away, a bloody hunk of meat they won't find until it's too late.

That isn't how it happened, not really. The car accident killed his mother, not him.

He knows it is a dream, then, but that doesn't stop him from trying to reach around to scratch his back. Groaning, he stumbles away from the wreckage before his mind can fill in the other seats. Seeing the bodies of his parents, or worse, _her_ , might be his undoing.

Lucrecia's laughter echoes eerily, as if resounding down a long hallway. The noise doubles back in on itself, multiplying and becoming more and more warped with each echo. It grows louder, not softer.

Vincent falls to his knees, arms wrapped tight around his middle. His head feels too full, too heavy. All up and down his spine, fire scorches his nerve endings, radiating outward over his back. He bites his tongue to keep from screaming.

Something crunches sickeningly in his back. Cracking, popping, snapping, stretching the flesh taut between bones. The flesh tears into ragged strips as new appendages burst forth. The nearby trees are splattered with gore. Heavy, fleshy limbs smack into the ground on either side of him, too tender. The impact sends sparks across his vision. He sinks down, forehead dragging in the dirt, and chokes on the pain.

The cackle of crows watching is too much. The crackle of leaves warns him something approaches. He can't muster up the energy to move or even look.

There's something soft and worn in his hands, the musty smell familiar and comforting. He clutches it against his heartbeat.

_My name,_ a voice says.

_I can't._

_Do ya wanna die?_

The thing creeping ever closer stops at the edge of the clearing, its breathing ragged.

_Kill me, kill me, let me go,_ he begs.

Her laughter, the crow's laughter, rising wildly. He moans, curling tighter in on himself.

_Say it!_

The crunch of leaves right next to his head makes him flinch. He cracks an eye open, sees her sensible shoes caked in mud. Follows the line of swollen ankles up. Dully notes the rips in her stockings, the mottled yellow flesh beneath. Her tattered dress, once a cheerful blue with little purple flowers.

She leans down, smiling with a mouthful of blackened teeth, and reaches for him. The nails on her hands have been ripped back. She’s bloody and covered in the soil of her grave.

She died and didn’t die and she’s dead to him.

_Say my goddamn name, Vince!_

_I can’t, I can’t, I deserve this, I can’t, let her have me._

_What the fuck?! Can’t pronounce it still, Vince? Fuckin’ wake up!_


	2. scream as they fight for life

☼

"...Cid."

Vincent opens his eyes, feels tears running down his cheeks. The stuffed dog sits on his belly. He shifts, reaching behind himself, and pulls a book out from under. The hardcover corners leave a bruised, tender feeling in their wake. He drops the book carelessly on the bedside table, staring at the plushie all the while.

He remembers using a sharpie to write the name on the collar, painstakingly getting the curve of the 'c' just right. The 'd' was a little crooked and a little smudged under the years of grime. His mother chided him for the smear of ink on his hand, smiling as she helped him wash it off.

Chaos rumbles unhappily from somewhere nearby. Vincent blinks, sets the toy aside, and gets down on the floor to look under the bed. The cat hisses at him.

"What is the matter with you...?"

Knowing better than to mess with the cat when it’s upset, he gets to his feet. He looks at the dream journal, thinks about writing the nightmare down, but his stomach churns. Bile rises in the back of his throat. He stumbles downstairs for the bathroom, hand over his mouth.

There’s puddles of water outside the bathroom door, cold and soaking through his socks. He nearly slips in them, catching himself on the door frame. A pungent aroma smacks him in the face; it takes him a minute to place it as _wet dog_ , something he has never smelled in his house but had the misfortune of encountering at Barret’s. And something else, meaty and greasy and burnt, coming from the kitchen.

Confusion and nausea twist painfully, making him double up with a low groan. He staggers into the bathroom, barely makes it to the toilet in time to heave up last night’s bland dinner. Again and again, his stomach climbs up his throat, violently expelling everything until there’s nothing left but acid and spit.

He slumps, fumbles shakily for the handle, and flushes it all away.

He clings to the edge of the sink, splashing cold water into his face. Then he gargles mouthwash while frowning over the smoke wafting through the air.

With growing trepidation, he walks to the kitchen.

A blond man stands in front of the stove, burning bacon. A naked blond man. His broad, muscular back ripples, a thousand thousand eyes opening and closing. As the man turns to look, the sunlight seems to shine through him, showing the skeleton beneath flesh. His skull is inhuman, rows and rows of teeth protruding from the maw of a canine snout. Vincent gapes, caught in the glow of blazing blue eyes.

"What--" _are you_ "--are you doing in my house?"

"Hey, Vince, hungry?"

The voice from his dreams. Vincent feels his lungs collapsing, sees another flicker of something there and not there, something impossible. The man is a dog is a man is--is--something in between. His footsteps are heavy, punctuated by the click of claws that aren't there.

Black fills Vincent's vision. He chokes, legs giving out, and falls. The man-- the dog-- the _monster_ catches him in hands that burn, fill him with scorching heat. He moans, trying and failing to get away.

"Shh, shh, stay with me, Vince."

With a jerk, he swings his false arm at the man's face; it's caught and held firmly. "Get _out_. I'll call the- the-" The word escapes him.

The man's features ripple and it's not hands holding his prosthetic at all but jaws, thick black drool dripping down and splattering on the floor. The beast growls, lips peeled back. Its black fur bristles up, and eyes blink open in the depths, rolling in their sockets to glare.

 _Call for help, I fuckin' dare you,_ the voice rumbles, rattling inside his skull. _Who's gonna fuckin' believe ya?_

Vincent yanks at his false arm. "Let go."

The jaws open, long, forked tongue lolling. The beast doesn't move, but its features shift, gradually becoming the man again. "Feel better?"

" _Better_? There is a _naked man_ in my house, a grease fire on the stove, and I am surely hallucinating something that is physically impossible."

"Oh, shit."

The man springs up, rushing to smother the fire in flour from a the open tupperware by the sink. He slams the lid down over it with a loud clang, dragging the pan off the heat.

Vincent holds his head in his hands, willing the weirdness to be nothing more than a dream. He does not wake up. Nothing changes. There's still a naked not-man in his kitchen, swearing over the smoking frying pan. This is not a dream.

With grit teeth, he stumbles to his feet and goes back to the bathroom. He fumbles at the cabinet, yanks it open, and shakily grabs an orange pill bottle, dumping out a fat pill into the palm of his hand.

"That shit don't fuckin' help, yanno."

Vincent whirls, throwing the bottle on instinct. It bounces off the monster's head, pills flying everywhere.

"What the fuck," the not-man complains, rubbing at his head like it honestly hurt. "This is real, asshole. Ya can't medicate me away."

“I am not going to stop taking my medication because a _hallucination_ says to,” Vincent retorts. He bends to pick up the scattered pills, keeping a wary eye on the monster.

“Fine, whatever makes ya feel nice, asshole.”

After Vincent downs one of the pills and puts the bottle away, he eyes the thing in the mirror. It's not any less solid yet. "...What _are_ you."

"Ya don't remember me at all."

In the place of the man, a big, black mastiff retreats from the room. Vincent stands stock still for several minutes, making himself breathe. Then he follows, reluctant to let it out of his sight. Real or not, it could lead to hurting his cat or, or... any number of unimaginable horrors, straight from his nightmares.

The hound curls up on the rug in the living room, watching him with a heartbroken expression. It has a dirtied collar with a name on it in a childish hand. Its eyes aren't scratched and faded, but glowing in the muted morning light shining through the windows.

"...Cid?"

It lifts its head, them drops it back on its paws.

"You were an imaginary friend. You're not real. You _can't_ be real."

_Damn. Every time I think I seen humans at their cruelest..._

"I am not being _cruel_. If you are real, then, then--"

☾

His mother took him out into the blizzard, neither of them wearing coats or boots. The wind howled, blowing snow into his eyes. He cried and wanted to go back home, but she held his hand in a tight grip and practically dragged him, stumbling, out behind the barn. She dragged him to where the trees shivered under the weight of snow.

"Look, damn you, open your eyes and look at them."

"I don't want to, mama, please, no--"

She shook him, almost gentle. "You must."

With tears freezing to his lashes, he opened his eyes and he Saw. The frozen bones of sheep lay in heaps, the remains from the slaughterhouse, but he did not See them. He saw a tall, spindly... thing hunched over, picking through the remains of a battlefield, crows circling endlessly overhead, their cries an endless howl of hunger.

A man with eyes like his laid at his feet, staring blindly up. A crow hopped across the mud, quarking. It settled on the man's face, claws tearing into pale flesh, and began to peck at the eyes, pulling stringy, red gore loose.

He screamed.

The crow took off in a flutter of black feathers. The monstrous thing twisted around with a rising snarl, maw split wide down the middle, and charged at him.

His mother yanked him against her stomach, cutting the Sight off. He wept the whole way back to the house, shaking and terrified.

He never forgot her low admonishment-- "Beware the crows. They will eat the eyes of prophecy."

☼

Vincent shudders, collapses into his chair, and doubles over until his forehead presses against his knees. A cold nose and warm breath nudges at his hand. It feels like the sharp edges of bone digging into his palm. He recoils, and the beast does the same, retreating to the rug.

"Why are you acting like a dog."

The beast looks down at its paws, ears up, then at him. _Kinda obvious, ain't it?_

"But you are not a dog. Not really."

_What, too grown up for a friendly puppy now?_

"I do not like dogs."

Of all the possible things he could say, this is the most absurd. The entire situation is absurd. He drags his hands through his hair, scrubs the heels of his palms against his cheeks.

The beast huffs; it sounds like a snort of amusement. It stretches, grows in size, and becomes a man again, sitting cross legged on the rug. Or sort of a man. The teeth are too long, the sclera are black behind glowing blue irises, his hands and feet end in black claws, and his ears are pointed.

And, the longer Vincent looks, the more he's convinced that it's not real. Between one blink and the next, he sees the bones beneath the flesh, and then not. Too many eyes are there and gone. The face is and isn't human. He looks away, pinching at the bridge of his nose.

"Can you... not?"

"Not what?"

"You keep changing. Can you just _pick_ something and stay still?"

When next he looks, the beast resembles something between dog and man. Like a werewolf out of a horror movie, except the face is a skull. A streak of blond hair runs down its back, but otherwise it seems so black that it absorbs light.

It licks uneasily at the side of its maw with its weird long tongue, watching him with eyes glowing deep in the sockets. There are far too many eyes in the inky black fur still, but they don't fade in and out of existence, only close and don't open again.

"Better?" it asks, voice a nervous rumble.

"... There's no point in my dressing up for Halloween when your... _costume_ will outshine everything else," Vincent mutters, tugging at his sleeves.

The beast barks laughter. "Still damn strange. That's good."

Vincent sits up, digs his fingers into the arm of the chair. "Why are you here?"

"Bound to ya. Gotta protect ya til the day of ya natural death." Though the beast works its jaw, it does not sync up with its speech.

"Protect me from _what_? The only threat in my future is an annual social obligation. Hardly worth..."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, whatever. Ya can keep ya damn human nonsense." The beast leans forward on its paw-like hands, claws splayed. " _It_ saw ya. When ya were little..."

Vincent swallows thickly. "The crows..."

"Yeah. It's gettin' closer.”

Abruptly, Vincent stands and leaves the room. He paces upstairs to his gun safe beneath the bed, unlocking it. Chaos hisses unhappily, but he pays the cat little mind. He feels calmer when he has a glock in his hand, even though it isn’t loaded.

The beast pokes its snout up past the banister. “That's not gonna help.”

Chaos’s hissing becomes full on growling, deep and unhappy. Vincent slams his safe and then marches with more confidence than he feels to the stairs.

“Don't come up here without my permission.”

“What? Why the hell not, my damn token’s already up here!”

That gives Vincent pause. He looks over his shoulder at the plushie on his bed.

“What happens to you if something is done to it?”

“Dunno, guess your ass won't have any protection and I go back to hell.” The beast shrugs, slinking downstairs. “If ya wanna find out, be my guest.”

Frowning, Vincent descends slowly. “How do I know you're not… that thing, trying to trick me?”

“If ya knew how to say my damn name properly…”

“Cid isn't _that_ difficult.”

“Not my real name, Vince.”

“...What does your name have to do with anything?”

“Got everything to do with it,” the beast grouches, stalking into the kitchen. “What good’s a hellhound ya can't control?”

“A hellhound.” Vincent stands in the doorway of the kitchen and tries to breathe normally.

The world feels very unreal and unstable. He grips the gun tightly, then strides back into the living room. The bullets are locked away in a safe on top of one of the shelves. His holster sits next to it. He loads the gun and straps the holster on, the weight against his ribs reassuring.

It won't help, the beast said, but his reality feels less shaky already.

"I have to go to work," he tells the hellhound crunching charred chunks of bacon in his kitchen, and his shoulders shake for how absurd it is to be talking to what is very likely a hallucination.

"Uh-huh?"

"...if you're real, you will have to _come with me_. I am not leaving you unattended."

"I'm real, dammit."

"I cannot take a hellhound in to work."

"So take a dog."

"I don't have a leash." Vincent casts a look around the kitchen. The perfectly ordinary kitchen that, aside from the pan in the sink and the splatters of grease on the stove top, seems weirdly untouched for having a hulking canine from hell prowling around in it. "...You're not vaccinated."

"What in all the goddamn hells would ya vaccinate a hellhound against?"

Vincent presses his palm against his face. "I don't know, the holy gods themselves?"

The beast barks laughter. "Lemme know if ya figure out how the fuck to do _that_ one."

"You had better be a dog when I come back down," Vincent tells the beast, moving to retrieve the cat's bowls. "And no funny business. There's no point in protecting me if you're just going to ruin my life."

No wisecracks for that.

Vincent fills the bowls up and goes upstairs to set them somewhere near the bed. The plushie stares stupidly from the pillows. Irritated, he grabs it and throws it into the gun safe. He wishes he could stuff the walking, talking hallucination in a locked box and forget about it, too, but his life has always been a series of cruel jokes.

He gets ready for work, making the effort to change into clothes that will let him hide the gun under a jacket. And he remembers to text Reno to let him know when to come in.

When he comes downstairs, he finds a massive black dog of questionable breed sitting by the door, quiet and perfectly normal. It has pale yellow spots on its chest and front paws, floppy ears, and a long tail that thumps on seeing him. None of these things should be cute.

His neighbor is outside fussing at the siding of her house when he steps outside. The dog prances over to the fence, wagging its tail, tongue lolling from its droopy maw.

"Oh! I didn't know you had a dog, Mr. Valentine!" she calls, effectively dashing all hopes he has of this being a prolonged hallucination.

 _Toldja so,_ the beast rumbles in the back of his mind.

"I'm... dog-sitting."

"Lucky you! What's his name?"

"Cid."

The siding of the house is forgotten entirely in favor of patting the dog. That tail wags so hard Vincent wonders if it might be in danger of flying off. He recalls that she has three big dogs of her own. They're a goofy, rambunctious lot that spend all day chasing each other around the yard and only occasionally barking at squirrels.

"Ah... You wouldn't happen to have a leash I could borrow?"

"Oh, of course, just a sec." She hurries off into her house, and returns not a minute later, offering a black leather leash over the fence. "You can return it whenever, I've got extras!"

"Thank you."

_Oughta drag yer ass through the gutters. Leashin' a goddamn hound of hell. What the fuck._

Despite complaints, the hellhound doesn't resist when Vincent bends to clip the leash on, and it walks beside him without tugging.

"Have a nice day, Mr. Valentine!" the neighbor calls, and he politely nods.

During the walk to work, familiar faces call out greetings and voice shock and delight over the dog. Cid soaks up every bit of attention, grinning a big goofy dog grin and drooling everywhere.

"Woah, bossman," Reno crows, "That's a big ass dog!"

"Yes." Vincent unlocks the store and lets them in. He hesitates, then unclips the dog, hanging the leash on the coat rack with the rest of his things. "His name is Cid. And he is going to go sit somewhere and behave himself if he wants to remain un-neutered."

Reno laughs. "Ouch, not much of a dog person are ya?"

"No."

Surprisingly, the hellhound does as suggested, sprawling out on the rug in the middle of the sitting area. For the entire rest of the day, it stays there, enjoying the attention from patrons.

And more curiously, there's an increase in sales. If the store could have a few more days of that, Vincent might actually see green in his bookkeeping for the first time in years. He casts sidelong looks at the dog sleeping on the rug while he and Reno close up.

“Cid,” Vincent says, and the dog comes over to accept the leash with a passive wag of tail.

They step outside.

_It’s near._

Vincent freezes, clutching his keyring hard enough to hurt.

A cluster of crows sits atop the cafe across the street. The dog bristles, seeming to double in size as it sucks in a breath. Then it lets out a single window-rattling bark. The crows shriek, taking off.

Reno jumps away, wide-eyed. "Holy _fuck_!"

No encore is necessary. The dog settles down on its haunches, tail thumping tentatively.

“Sorry,” Vincent mutters.

“Not a fan of birds, yo? Haha… Do you, uh, want a ride?” The furtive looks at the dog speak volumes of how much Reno wants it in his car.

“No.”

“Later, bossman.”

“Mmh.”

Vincent watches Reno drive away, then looks down at the dog. It looks back, thumps its tail once, and then stretches languidly.

_I’m gonna fuckin’ chew yer entire fuckin’ library up if ya think I’m gonna go sit quiet in yer boring ass home._

“What, exactly, do you expect to do instead?”

_My job._

Vincent stares. Then he struggles as the dog stands and yanks at the leash, twisting and digging its paws into the pavement as if to slip the collar.

"No! _Cid_ , stop."

The hellhound actually does stop. It sits on its haunches hard, yawning wide with a low whine. A passerby chuckles and comments lowly, "Restless, eh?" without slowing their walk. Vincent nods vaguely without looking at the person.

_Ya put my ass in storage for years, asshole, and I come out and find ya all grown up and missin' a goddamn arm._

Reliving those memories in front of the bookstore, a place of safety and warmth, is an abhorrent idea. Doing so out on the street, where anybody can see, is even worse. Vincent pulls at the leash and starts walking at a brisk pace. The dog has no choice but to trot to keep up. They aren't heading straight home, though Vincent longs for the quiet and comfort.

_Iunno why the fuck ya ain't let me protect ya then, and Iunno what the fuck ya involved with to need me now, but I got a lotta shit to catch up on._

“Is prying really necessary?”

_Prying?! Ain’t had a problem with me bein’ in your goddamn dreams but alla sudden it’s PRYING if I’ve manifested?! The fuck, man._

They’re at the park now. It’s dark, but for the twinkle of lights along the walkways. And blessedly quiet, no birds calling in the distance. Hardly anyone out on a chilly night like this, affording them some modicum of privacy.

“I do, actually,” Vincent says. “Have a problem with someone else witnessing my nightmares.”

_Too fuckin’ bad._

The enormity of the situation crashes into Vincent all at once. He sucks in a sharp breath, coughs at the frigid chill stabbing at his insides, and staggers over to slump on the very edge of the nearest bench. His vision narrows to a point, everything crowding in, including the damn dog, nosing at him with that rumbly voice fretting at his mind.

He flings the leash away, shoves at the black furred body, and hisses, "Be _quiet_."

Though freed, the dog doesn't leave. It slinks to the opposite side of the path and lays in the bushes, head on its paws. The glowing blue eyes watch Vincent warily.

Vincent pays it no mind. He rubs at his face, dragging his fingers down as if he could peel away the layers of panic and claustrophobia by force. There's no escape, and he isn't in control, and there are no answers which will put things to rights. Only a dog that isn't a dog and things that look like crows but _aren't_.

He used to know what they were. He's sure of that. He used to know a lot of things. His mother was... training him. To do something. But the memories of her are faded, washed away by time and grief, drowned out in gunfire and blood and the shrapnel that could have killed him if it'd been an inch to the left and the arm located too late to save it.

Shaking, he clutches at the gun beneath his coat. He can't see why he would want to continue on like this. His days are a boring, repetitive routine, but they're safe, he's safe. Only now he's not and everything he thought he knew about the world is tilting horribly and those damned blue eyes are still watching him.

"Go away." His voice is croaky. He swallows, hating it, and tries again. " _Go away_."

_I can't. I'm bound._

"Tell me your name, then, and how to unbind you."

_I can't._

"Why the hell not?"

An image, not words, fills his head. Something huge and terrible holding down a squirming mass of black that yelps like a puppy. The red hot tip of a brand, smoking as it’s brought down. It sizzles when it touches the tender underside of a forked tongue. The black creature howls, writhing, and it takes three small, spiny creatures to hold it down for the needles that follow, poking into a thousand thousand eyes to etch symbols deep inside.

"Stop," Vincent gasps, feeling his lunch lurching uneasily in his stomach. “It’s too much.”

Feeling the hellhound withdraw from his mind is like feeling something with too many legs crawling in the inside of his skull and down his spine, leaving cold emptiness in its wake. Vincent shudders, eyes rolling up in their sockets, and all of a sudden the pavement is rushing up to meet him.

☾

His dreams are darkness and fire and Yuffie’s wide, frightened eyes. Tifa laughing nervously between Elena and Rude, their hands behind their backs hiding shards of glass, blood running down their knuckles. Cloud and his cat green eyes, the flash of silver promising only pain. Barret staggering, shoulders hunched, as he shelters Marlene and the others from vicious claws and a terrible, soul-wrenching bark. Reeve begging for something he can't have, moaning around the barrel of a gun.

And the endless chatter of crows, echoing down, down, down, following him as he stumbles from one nightmare to the next.

☼

Something big and heavy lays across his back, pinning him down. It puts off waves of scorching, smothering heat that traps the sweat against his back and makes him squirm. His neck is alight with pain, razors slicing through tender flesh and brushing against nerves that send little sparks of pleasure south. Vincent wakes slowly to wet heat dripping down his shoulder.

Instinct makes him throw his elbow back. There's a satisfying clack of teeth and a yelp, the weight rolling off of him. A thump on the floor as his assailant falls off the bed, followed by the scrabble of claws, and a muffled, "Wha' the _fugck_."

Vincent sits up gingerly, peeling back layers of blankets to find he's still dressed in yesterday's clothes, though his jacket and holster are gone and his shirt is undone. He touches at the junction of neck and shoulder. His fingers come away stained in blood, sticky saliva, and reeking pus. He recoils, swiping his fingers against his pants, and glares over at the beast. The beast who hunches in his blond man-shape, rubbing blood from his chin.

"What did you do to me."

"Yer Sight's clouded," the beast-pretending-to-be-a-man mutters, then sticks its tongue out to prod at it. Fresh blood wells from the bite marks. "Fugck."

"What are you talking about?"

"The thing's poisoned ya with wantin’, so I was pullin' it out." The not-man rolls to his knees, braces bloodied hands on the edge of the bed, eyeing Vincent warily. "Not done."

"Get away from me."

"And leave that thing's sick in ya?!"

Vincent throws a pillow, rolls, and grabs his gun from the bedside table. At the same time, the beast lunges, tackling him, and they end up in a sprawl over the bed. He's pinned, but he jams his gun up under the thing's jawline, staring defiantly up into blue eyes that blaze with annoyance and something uncomfortably like awe.

"...Won't kill me, but ya ain't even a lil afraid, are ya?"

Vincent's lips thin out, eyes narrowed. "No."

"Let me finish."

He tightens his finger on the trigger, but doesn't fire yet. "How do I know I can trust you?"

"I can't exist without ya."

The thing's shape changes, doubling in size, from man to something much more bestial. Flesh melts away, revealing fur and bone and too many eyes. The skull's jaw hangs loose, bloodied tongue lolling and dripping blood between them. Claws curl into the sheets on either side of Vincent, and though the beast could rip him to pieces, it makes no move but for the roll of eyes in their sockets, every spot of blue fixating on him and him alone.

In the tinted sunlight, pinpricks in the middle of the pitch black pupils seem to glow. Vincent squints, straining to make them out, and realizes he _can_. Dull runes twisting beneath the much brighter scrawl of a child's handwriting, naming the beast above him something silly and easy to pronounce. His eyes water as he tries to make out the name hidden behind so much naive innocence.

The gun wavers between them. The beast nudges it out of the way and bends to resume pulling the poison out.

Vincent gasps and arches when something solid slides through his veins, forcibly pulled to the surface. He can't take his gaze off of the marks in the beast's eyes, lest he lose it before he _knows_. The beast tugs at the thing in Vincent, stretching it taut, slow and careful, and finally it snaps free. It’s some sort of black worm that writhes in his jaws, hissing, and dies with a snap of the beast's teeth, smoke and fire curling up from his maw to burn it away.

With the death of the worm, Vincent’s Sight sharpens and he can See the rune clearly. "Zydriel. _Cid_."

The beast bends to nose at his jawline, lapping at the bloody wound on his neck. The flesh burns as it closes. "At yer service, Vincent Valentine."


	3. feel death, see its beady eyes

☼

A black town car is parked in front of the book store. The street is empty, likely courtesy of the Turks chasing everyone off ahead of time. Reno leans against the trunk, weight on his elbows, hands hanging limply down at either side of his skinny hips. He smiles when he sees Vincent coming.

"Hey, man."

Cid growls, low and deep. His hackles bristle up, but thankfully he maintains his form. No unusual amounts of eyes or anything else to give him away as anything other than an ordinary dog.

"Reno."

Vincent glances through the windshield, sees Rude lift two fingers from the steering wheel in greeting. Elena waves from the passenger seat. The back seat is hidden by a dark divider and tinted windows.

"I told the boss, no way ya were in our kinda work, but then ya had to come trottin' in with that thing." Reno glances down at Cid, then back up. "So now we're gonna go for a ride and ya gotta reassure the boss it don't mean nothin'."

"And here I thought we were friends," Vincent says, voice flat.

"Aw, man, don't be like that..."

"I'm not going anywhere with you."

"Yo, I really do wanna stay friends," Reno sighs. He taps out a message against the car, something Vincent recognizes as morse for 'no', as he straightens up. The way he throws his arm down sharply, a stun baton sliding out from under his sleeve into his grip is disappointingly the opposite of friendly.

The driver's side door opens, and Vincent steps forward quickly to slam the passenger door closed again when Elena tries to open it. He braces himself against her weight. When she cracks the window to yell at him, he shoves the barrel of his gun in her face and she freezes.

"Cid," he says, but he thinks, _Zydriel_. "Disable them, non-lethal force only."

Reno rushes at Vincent, baton raised, but he never makes it. The dog lunges, loses its shape, becoming like black lightning that zags jaggedly in the blink of an eye, sliding formlessly between Vincent's legs and around Reno's. Claws and teeth yank the redhead backwards, smacking the back of his head against the pavement. The baton goes sliding across the sidewalk as Reno groans. The hellhound reforms, huge and bristling with eyes, with front legs on Reno's shoulders, maw split impossibly wide to let far too many teeth frame the man's face.

The car rocks sharply, metal popping under the weight of Rude jumping onto the hood and rushing at Vincent. He's got silver knuckles on his fists, but he throws himself at Vincent feet-first. Vincent has no choice but to roll out of the way, relinquishing his hold on the door. Rude lands with only a slight stagger, then keeps coming, fists flying. Behind him, Elena throws open the door, brings her own knuckled fists up, and rushes to join the fray.

Vincent manages to dodge around Rude, swinging his prosthetic to smack the back of that bald head hard enough to make the black man stagger, his sunglasses flying off. But he's not fast enough to avoid Elena, too.

"Sorry, Vincent, sir," she says, when her fist slams into his side. "Orders are orders."

And then Cid is there, his bark rattling teeth as he smashes into Elena, bringing her down. He's not as careful about his teeth as he should be, and there's a bright spray of crimson. She screams.

" _Cid_!" Vincent wheezes, the same time as Reno and Rude shout, "Elena!"

Reno rolls to his knees, scrambles to his feet, rushing at Cid now, bare-fisted and furious. Rude runs to join, silver knuckles flashing. Vincent raises his gun, fires a warning shot that makes them stumble to a stop. Cid melts away from Elena, slinks back to stand in Vincent's shadow, blood dripping from his maw.

Elena struggles to sit up, gasping in pain. Blood runs down her arm from the tear in her suit up by her shoulder. Her white blouse becomes shockingly red, the blue jacket dark.

The back door of the car opens in the ringing silence.

Tseng steps out, adjusts his tie, and meets Vincent's gaze coolly. "Stand down."

Though Reno and Rude lower their fists, stances going relaxed, and they bend to help Elena get into resting formation, Vincent knows the words are meant for him. He narrows his eyes, grip tightening on the gun. He doesn't raise it, doesn't take aim yet.

"You really do always have to make things difficult, don't you, Valentine." Tseng steps forward, reaching into his jacket near his breast.

Vincent raises the gun. And frowns because Tseng pulls out what looks like a small silver flashlight.

Too late, Cid hisses a warning in the back of his mind.

It's a scroll, unfurling and floating through the air, holy words blinding. Vincent flinches, squinting his eyes against it. Tseng snaps his wrist up, and the end of the scroll wraps around Vincent's wrist. He yanks, twisting, and the gun goes flying.

Cid darts forward, growling, but it's a mistake. The Turks close ranks on him, forming a diamond. As one, they shout words Vincent doesn't know and never wants to hear again because they reverberate and echo inside his skull, making him drop to his knees, shaking. The hellhound collapses, form rippling, eyes rolling.

"There was no need for all of this," a voice says. Rufus, Vincent realizes, belatedly, as he looks up and sees the blond man standing over him in a too white suit, hair artfully falling over one brow. "All I wanted was a civilized discussion about your motives."

"Funny way of... asking nice."

Rufus laughs, and it echoes unpleasantly inside Vincent’s skull. "Yes, well, one can never be too cautious when there's demons involved." He rolls his hand in a graceful _get on with it_ gesture. “I think if you want to keep your little pet, you had best invite us in.”

Vincent glances over at the hellhound, still penned in by the Turks. The inky black shape fluctuates wildly, but Cid is otherwise motionless. And too silent.

None of them take notice of the gathering of black birds on the roof tops across the street. The crows are silent, beady eyes watchful.

"Guess I have no choice."

Vincent climbs to his feet with as much dignity as possible, dusting his pants off. He looks around for his gun, but finds Rufus's too shiny black shoe pressed on it, an infuriatingly smug look on his face.

In the background, the Turks all produce silver encased scrolls. They wrap the hellhound up, binding his snout, eyes, legs, and most of his back. There's a horrible smell of burning fur and flesh, then at last the constant shifting of shape stops as the hellhound seems to deflate, going totally limp.

Vincent looks away, catches Reno's and Elena's apologetic looks, dully notes Rude got another pair of sunglasses from somewhere, and settles on staring at Tseng. The distance between them yawns wide, years of slowly growing apart since they were in the military together. Tseng stares back, cool and indifferent, as though they were strangers. Despite that, Tseng is the first to break eye contact.

Unable to delay any longer, Vincent goes to unlock the store. He enters with Reno and Rude close on his heels. They make a quick sweep of the shop, turning lights on and checking all corners for hidden surprises. Vincent drifts over to stand by the counter.

Rufus strides in, looks around with a slight, distasteful curl of his lip, nose wrinkling, and goes to claim the best seat, the one patrons vie for all day long with the perfect amount of sunlight hitting it. He pauses to wipe it with a handkerchief before sitting.

Tseng and Elena bring up the rear, dragging the hellhound. They dump him on the rug he'd favored, and Rufus, the bastard, puts his feet up on the beast's side. Tseng takes his place at Rufus's left while Elena lets herself be herded off to the bathroom for first aid by Reno. Rude stands at the front door.

"Come, let's talk," Rufus says, waving his hand vaguely towards the other seats.

Vincent walks on stiff legs to stand opposite of Rufus, sullenly refusing to sit. He folds his arms, tucks his fingers into the empty gun holster, and keeps his face clear of all the murderous thoughts simmering just below the surface.

"If I'd known you were more than a short-sighted seer, I would have made a more forceful bid to employ you." Rufus sighs. "Where did you get this beast?"

Dark shadows flutter past the windows, making the sunlight flicker. Vincent turns his head aside, not looking to the windows, but to Rude standing by the door.

Not content to be ignored, Rufus snaps, "I require an answer, Mr. Valentine."

His ire is punctuated by the smell of burnt fur, the holy scriptures tightening and blazing with blinding light that. Vincent snaps his gaze back to Cid's prone form, even if it hurts to look, tears sliding unbidden down his cheeks.

"...Family heirloom."

The minute he says something, the light fades. Rufus leans forward, propping his chin on his knuckles.

"From your father, I assume?"

Vincent blinks. In the background, more flickering sunlight, enough that Tseng notices, tensing and stepping towards the window with a soft, "Sir."

Vincent tips his head, listening to the growing rumble of a familiar motorcycle. It sounds nothing like the expected cacophony of crows, but the sheer volume of the engine's roar rattles deep in his bones.

Then, abruptly, it cuts off, and all is silent.

"You had better release my hound, Shinra," Vincent advises.

Rufus ignores that. He waves his hand, dismissive. "Tseng, Rude, send whoever it is away."

Opening the door proves to be a mistake.

Cloud fills the doorway, grinning wildly beneath cat green eyes, and kicks Rude solidly in the gut, sending him staggering back. The blond strides in, gazes around, and waggles his fingers in greeting. The crows fly in behind him, flooding the room with black feathers, and finally, they begin to shriek. Vincent drops into a crouch, hunching over Cid to keep beaks and claws away.

Tseng hurries forward to meet Cloud, a stun baton in his hand. The blond ducks, catches Tseng by the wrist, and flips him out of the building. He slams and locks the door in a smooth move, then walks forward to block Rude's punch with his forearms.

"Reno!" Rufus yells, standing. "Elena!"

As Rude goes down in two brutal punches from Cloud, something cracking on the second hit, Reno comes barreling out of the bathroom, Elena on his heels.

" _My hound,_ Rufus," Vincent snaps, pulling at the scripture and finding it as stiff as metal siding. The edges are sharp, cutting into his fingers.

A deep voice behind Vincent says, "Too late."

He twists around to look up into cat green eyes, framed by silver hair. The crows whirl, coming apart in bursts of feathers, disintegrating into black ash that reforms into the man's tall, muscular form.

"Sephiroth."

"Seer." Sephiroth holds his hand out to the side, and a ridiculously long sword materializes. "You've become too friendly with my puppet again."

A loud crack, followed by Reno's groan and Elena screaming marks the end of the fight between Cloud and the Turks. Vincent glances over, sees Reno, Rude, and Elena down on the floor but still alive. Tseng kicks at the door, rattling it, but it doesn't budge.

"Eyes on me, seer," Sephiroth says, bringing the point of his sword under Vincent's chin.

"Cloud isn't yours to keep."

Rufus whispers, "Release."

Under his fingers, Vincent feels the scrolls soften, becoming ordinary paper again. He yanks it away from Cid's body. At the same time he jerks to the side as the sword jabs forward, cuts locks of his hair and leaves a stinging cut behind on the shell of his ear.

Sephiroth draws the sword back, swinging it in a wide arc that leaves bookshelves collapsing, cut cleanly in two. It comes so fast that Vincent doesn't have time to duck.

"Cid!" _Zydriel_.

Blue eyes snap open. The hellhound surges to his feet with a snarl, catching the sword in his teeth. Blood and ichor flies, splattering everywhere. Cid's body vibrates with the force of the bark that follows. The sword shatters apart, chunks of metal becoming black feathers that flutter down.

Then the hellhound lunges at Sephiroth. Smirking, Sephiroth steps back, and Cloud slides into his place, cat green eyes flickering blue and going wide.

"Don't!"

_Fuck._

At the last second, Cid snaps his mouth shut, twisting in the air so that he kicks off of Cloud, sending the blond sprawling. Sephiroth leaps over the smaller man's body as it flies past, and comes down with his sword in hand, stabbing it through Cid's neck.

The hellhound yelps, slammed down into the floor, and then struggles wildly, snarling and snapping and pinned like a bug. Sephiroth plants his boot on Cid's snout, pushing to hold his jaws shut.

 _You fuckin' bastard, I'll fuckin' rip ya to pieces._ Cid keeps kicking, trying to get loose, but it's no good.

"You must be very fond of your pet, Valentine." Sephiroth tilts his head to the side, smirking. "Shall I take care of its attitude problem for you?"

Cloud climbs to his feet, clutching at his head. His eyes flash between green and blue, pupils expanding and contracting rapidly. He groans, shoulders shaking, and doubles over, coughing up clouds what Vincent assumes are black feathers. Another fit of hacking and Cloud spits out a whole blossom and several buds, and another spray of petals. Flowers.

"Oh, dear, my puppet isn't feeling well..." Sephiroth sighs, twisting his heel against Cid's muzzle. "Don't fret, we'll take care of these insects and go home to put you back together."

"S-seph," Cloud sputters, choking on more flowers, face darkening as he struggles for breath.

"You shouldn't be so cruel to your loyal servants," Rufus says, soft.

He's got a huge gun in his hand, pulled out from somewhere. Sephiroth dodges the first shot easily. The second shot smashes into Cloud's side, sending him spinning. Vincent surges to his feet with a wordless shout.

The third tears a hole into the wood around the doorknob of the front door. The fourth goes wide as Sephiroth flies past Vincent and slams into Rufus. His gun goes flying. Tseng kicks the door in, comes in firing.

Vincent drops down to avoid the crossfire. He grabs at the sword, yanking desperately at it, feeling as though he tries to hold onto handfuls shrieking crows that claw and peck at his skin. It comes up with a shriek and flies apart, re-materializing in Sephiroth's hand.

Cid surges up, throws himself between the sword and Rufus's neck. Snarls on impact, snapping to catch and fracture the blade, flames blazing between his teeth. Tseng runs in, grabs Rufus by the arm, and yanks him away, towards the door. The other Turks get up, leaning against each other, and stumble after their boss.

And Vincent, he backs away from the hellhound and the explosion of feathers, the flashing of the sword sparking against teeth and cutting through flames. He kneels by Cloud, feeling warm blood soaking through his pants, and puts his fingers against a weak pulse. Cloud shivers, looking at him with glassy eyes that are purely blue. Vincent yanks his jacket off, presses it to the wound.

"Stay with me, Cloud."

"She's…” Cloud coughs up blood and flower petals. “She won't let us go..."

"Where is she?"

Cloud reaches for him, hands shaking. Vincent bends down further and Cloud grabs him by the shirt, yanking him down just as a huge black wing sweeps through the air, followed by the blade slicing so fast that it sings.

Vincent turns his head, watches the hellhound and Sephiroth spinning and clashing almost too fast to follow. Feathers and papers and blood and fire everywhere. Rufus's gun glints on the floor, up against one of the overturned chairs. Vincent pries Cloud's fingers from his shirt, guiding them to make him apply pressure to the jacket. Then he crawls over to the gun, staying low to avoid the fight overhead. He grabs it, checks the magazine, finds eight remaining bullets, each capped in silver.

"Vin--" Cloud coughs. "She's, she's..."

"Get down, man!" Reno yells, and then two metal objects bounce into the shop.

Instinctively, Vincent throws himself over Cloud, shouts, "Cid, hide!"

The hellhound throws himself to the ground, flattening like a shadow, and slides under a chair. The grenades go off a moment later, exploding not with fire but pure white light. Sephiroth flies apart, crows disintegrating. Vincent squeezes his eyes shut too late, but not before seeing a huge dark shadow cast across the far wall, tall and spindly and undulating wildly.

He's blinded, unable to see anything when he opens his eyes, sparking blackness filling his entire vision. Yet still, he sits up, facing where he saw that shadow. He lifts the gun in a shaking hand, struggling to remember the thing's shape, where its vitals were.

Above the crackle of flames, he hears the crows cawing as they merge back together. Sephiroth makes a soft, "Hmph," noise, footsteps heavy as he crosses the room. Cid scrabbles on the floorboards, growling.

☾

His mother's coffin stayed closed for the entire funeral. Vincent never cried, unable to connect the reality of her death with the plain wooden box on the dais. When it was over, the box in the ground, he stood silent at his father's side and endured an endless procession of relatives he didn't know simpering at him about how sad it was, how strong he was being.

And he went home to hug Cid. Not just the plush Cid his mother gave him, but the real one, dark and dangerous and snarling when his father appeared in the doorway.

"Your training will have to be completed," G. Valentine said. "Finish your sniveling quickly."

Cid was taken not long after, sealed inside the plushie and stored away. His father put him through brutal exercises every day after school, expected his grades to be perfect even on limited sleep. When he didn't shape up as expected, entering into teenage rebellion, he was sent away to boot camp. It was only natural that he would join the army after that--anything to get away from his father.

And little by little, he forgot his mother, forgot her face, forgot her teaching. He forgot about Cid, forgot about the truth behind scratched up plastic eyes.

He still had the Sight, in his dreams, but it was rarely useful. It didn't show him the landmine buried in the road, didn't show him the shrapnel and glass that tore through him, didn't show him the future of an honorably discharged, disabled veteran owning a used bookstore that barely got through each month.

His father never came to see him in the veteran's hospital. Never wrote, never called.

Then one day, his estate did. The old man died, crushed under a tractor, and left behind the farm. Vincent met Lucrecia then, while going through his inheritance. Their romance was brief, cut short by the realization that she'd been involved with his father, that she'd been there the day of the accident. He hadn't wanted to hear her explanations, which seemed too far fetched and unreal to be truth. No mere farming accident killed his father.

He'd Seen the creature underneath the farmhouse. Cat green eyes and reaching tendrils of shadow. The caw of a crow directly above him startled him away, and then the thing under the porch was gone as if it never existed.

But it was real. He just had to open his Eyes.

☼

"Cid, lend me your eyes!"

_Here!_

Blackness gives away to a nauseating miasma of color, of too many perspectives at once. Because Cid is moving, weaving and dodging to avoid Sephiroth's sword, everything seems to blur and shift, too fast to make sense of what Vincent is Seeing. But he then spots it, the shadow crouched on the far side of the room.

Through Cid's eyes, he places himself, feeling the world tilt oddly and his stomach give an uncanny lurch for the out of body experience. With each pass Cid makes between himself and the thing across the room, Vincent adjusts his aim.

He inhales coughs on the smoke, tries again to hold the breath, waits for one last pass, which draws Sephiroth out of the way.

And fires.

The thing howls, spasming on impact, becoming solid, thousands of mismatched eyes all across its writhing form rolling. Vincent unloads the entire clip as fast as he can squeeze the trigger. Sephiroth stumbles, body jerking as if each bullet hits him. The crows fly apart, but Sephiroth remains, sinking to the floor.

Cloud lets out a strangled cry. He's choking again, hacking up thick globs of bloody flowers. Vincent turns his head towards Cloud, even though it's useless because he still can't see with his own eyes. The blond is trying to spit something bigger than a flower up. Beady black eyes and a sharp beak protrude from his lips; the crow struggles its way out, dissolving into ash once it's free.

"Holy _shit_ , yo!" Reno shouts. "That's one ugly mother!"

The Turks pile into the room, Rude with his arm in a makeshift sling and a bandage stuck to the back of his head, Elena with her arm wrapped tight, Reno with small bandages on his face and hands. Tseng is the only one that looks mostly unharmed.

"Get Cloud out of here," Vincent says, pushing up to his feet uneasily.

He still has to rely on Cid's eyes. It makes moving a nauseating endeavor, everything off kilter and not where his sight says his body should be. Without a weapon, he's useless.

And the thing, injured and furious, drags itself across the room, hissing in a thick, strange language that hurts to listen to.

Cid slides between Vincent and it, growling and snapping. _Fuck off, ya ugly piece of shit!_

Elena and Rude drag Cloud out of the store. Tseng and Reno fall in on either side of Vincent, guns in hand. Reno passes over his gun, and draws a silver knife out of his boot.

"Put an end to this, Cid," Vincent says.

The hellhound lunges forward, meeting the creature headlong. He catches it by one tentacle, rips through muscle. Black ichor and chunks of flesh sprays out as the thing writhes. Tseng and Vincent don't give it a chance to retaliate, emptying silver bullets into its front. Reno runs around to the other side, making quick stabs and darting out of reach of grasping tendrils.

Sephiroth pushes himself up to his knees, hair hanging in his face. "Mother..."

Vincent Sees what is coming a split second before it happens. "Sephiroth, d--"

But the silver-haired man is already on his feet, arms spread as he walks into the line of fire, answering his "mother’s” call. The thing throws Reno and Cid off as if they are inconsequential; Reno hits the wall and slumps, unconscious. Cid lands on his feet, sliding to a stop near Vincent.

_That stupid fuck--_

Sephiroth laughs as the creature yanks him in, absorbing him. It shudders, shrinking down, reshaping itself until all that remains is Sephiroth, still standing there with his arms spread. A black wing materializes at his back, flexing out gracefully, then folding to reveal the sword in his grip. He turns on them, cat green eyes glowing, slit pupils narrow and vicious.

"Get Reno, Tseng," Vincent says, quietly.

Tseng nods, curt, and hands over an extra magazine. "Don't die, Valentine." Then he ducks and weaves, racing to Reno's side.

Sephiroth doesn't even react. His eyes are on Vincent only as he takes one slow step forward at a time, long sword glinting in the flickering fire light.

"Seer..." His voice echoes, rasps eerily, like many voices overlapping. "Give us your eyes that you may sleep. Painless and dreamless."

Vincent shrugs, slamming the new magazine into his gun. “No thanks.”

The hellhound barks, rippling and furious. Smoke and fire billow out from his maw, barely contained. _Fuck off! This one is mine._

“Such a noisy hound. Let us put it down, my child.”

In a blur of motion, Sephiroth flies forward, swinging that sword too fast to follow, making rapid stabs. Cid drops away, becoming formless, and dodges, zigging and zagging, but Sephiroth is too fast. The sword slices through one eye after another, popping them in sprays of gore. Vincent's Sight goes dark an inch at a time. And each hit makes Cid snarl, flinch back, and lose a little more ground, move a little slower.

Vincent hunches, digging the heel of his palm against his eye, the gun's grip cold against his brow. He coughs on smoke and struggles to see with his own eyes. They're still painfully raw, his vision a bleary mess. He squints through the haze, struggling to follow the flashes of silver and black.

Then he sees it, bright spots of cat green, leaving streaked trails as Sephiroth moves. Blinking rapidly, Vincent follows the trails, faster and faster...

He drops to one knee, sucks in a breath of mostly smoke-free air, and raises the gun. The longer he watches, the more he thinks he can guess where Sephiroth will be next.

Cid lets out a howl, shape shivering at the edges as if he might fly apart at any moment. The hellhound is down to his last eye, the others all leaking and closed. He lunges, catches Sephiroth by the forearm, sinking his teeth deep into flesh. It barely slows the silver-haired man, but it is enough.

Vincent fires, twice.

Cat green explodes. Sephiroth staggers, head dropping back, and lets out an inhuman scream. A thick, inky black liquid begins to rise up out of his mouth and nose, becoming the shape of a clawed hand.

 _Oh no ya fuckin' don't,_ Cid growls, breathing a huge wave of fire out, so hot it burns blue.

Sephiroth's screams as his flesh sloughs away and the a sickly sweat burning meat smell filling the air are going to haunt Vincent's dreams for years to come. The inky thing sinks back in, trying and failing to escape the cleansing flame, its horrid cries muffled by those of its host.

Cid doesn't stop spitting fire until there's nothing but ash left. Then he takes one shaky step towards Vincent and falls over.

Jamming the gun into his holster, Vincent crawls over, pulling the beast's head into his lap. "You're... not dying, are you?"

_Might be, sorry._

"I was just getting used to you."

 _Least ya safe now, Vince._ The hellhound flicks his tongue out, lapping at smoke-stained, bloodied fingers apologetically.

There, surrounded by the burning ruins of his bookstore, Vincent watches the life of his oldest companion fade away.


	4. fade out again

☼

Four months later finds Vincent poking around in his yard, checking on his plants for damage from the last month's blizzard. It's a warm day, the ground muddy but still hard, lingering clumps of snow sitting in the shadowy corners of the yard.

The rosebushes are all penned in by chicken wire, wooden stakes, and mounds of dirt and hay; he'll leave them for another month or two, just to be safe. But he still has other trees and bushes, as well as random clusters of tulip bulbs scattered around the yard, the origins of which he has never figured out.

Cloud works under one of the birch trees in the back, raking up old, moldy plant debris in preparation for future planting and fresh mulch. He's got mud on his knees and a smudge of dirt on his cheek. When he sees Vincent come around the house, he pauses, head tilted.

"How's it look?"

"Nothing died," Vincent answers, coming to a stop near Cloud.

"Good."

Cloud goes back to raking leaves, content with the silence and no doubt throwing himself into the mundane chore to avoid the slow downward slide of his thoughts. Sephiroth’s shadow still hangs over the younger man. The memory of his “mother” haunts them both.

Vincent tucks his face into his scarf, gazing without really seeing towards the sunny patch between the trees. A smooth stone marker indicates where they’d buried the plushie and Cid’s ashes. He often wonders what the hellhound would have thought of the snow, of the ridiculous holiday festivities Tifa subjected them to. Of Cloud hanging around most days, of the Turks regularly checking in, of any of his friends, really.

He’d give up any number of precious things, starting with his Sight, to be able to find out, but it’s just another useless wish, another useless regret.

“Hey,” Cloud says. Just, _hey,_ and a glance towards the house to convey the unspoken _are you okay_.

Neither of them are, not really, but they have to keep going.

Glancing around the yard, Vincent suggests, “Let's stop for now,” and starts back towards the house without waiting for Cloud’s answer.

It's not surprising that Cloud agrees readily enough, following Vincent inside. Nor is it unexpected when Cloud asks to stay the night. There's a full house for him to return to, but none of them survived the same horror. None of them know what really happened.

Vincent doesn't protest when Cloud climbs into his bed in the middle of the night, shaking with the memory of cat green eyes. He can't sleep anyway, twitching at every sound even though it's not cawing. Chaos settles between them, purring with the satisfaction that comes of having two humans doting on him.

Eventually, they sleep. Eventually, they dream.

☾

He stands in the middle of his back yard, face upturned because it's snowing. Big, slow flakes drifting down from a sky that is curiously clear of clouds. The moon is huge and pale, smiling down at him amidst a backdrop of sparkling stars. He marvels at the serene silence.

Then he hears it, a scratching noise. Frowning, but not alarmed, he drifts between the pale birch trees. The blackened eye shapes on their trunks seem to follow him, sleepy and bemused. A glowing green mist swirls around his ankles, guiding him whenever the sounds stop.

Of course he comes to a stop at Cid's grave. Tilting his head, he listens, and it seems as though the scratching noise comes from below. But it's going the wrong way because... because...

_You can't see?_

No one answers, but that's okay.

In his nightmares, his left arm is always gone. The prosthetic is dead weight, or absent, or both. He lifts his arm, awed by the gold limb that weighs nothing and moves as if he were born with it. A dream, then, and with that thought, he focuses on the fingertips, forces them to be sharper.

Perhaps he should feel horror at lifting those gleaming talons to his face, at pushing them into his eye socket, careful not to cut the fragile membrane. He twists and pulls, popping it free, and it floats up, towards the sky. It can't escape, still tied to the inside of his skull by bloody strips of muscle and optic nerves.

Hot blood runs down his cheek, steaming in the cold air. He flexes his gold claws, distracted by the sensations until the scrabbling noise below becomes a frantic pounding.

Catching the floating eye in his right hand, he slices the optic nerve. It drops, lifelessly, into his palm. Color begins to fade from the red iris, the pupils becoming cloudy. Frost creeps up quickly.

Knowing he only has a few precious seconds, Vincent drops to his knees on the grave and shoves his hands into the dirt, cradling the eye in his fingers. It's loose, as though freshly buried, even though Cid has been in the ground for the whole long winter.

_Take it._

The noises stop. His hands are freezing over, the ground hardening up around him, trapping him. He sucks in a breath, breathes in the moldy, cold stench of the grave.

And then there's blooming heat at his fingertips. The roar of a fire enveloping his hands and wrists, the winter frost thawing. He yanks free, hard enough that he lands on his back, staring up at the starry sky.

☼

Vincent opens his eyes to find not stars, but the plain wooden slats of the ceiling above his bed. A warm weight presses against his side, an arm draped over his middle and blond spikes tickling his chin. Chaos rumbles softly near his ear.

He turns his head, taking in the glowing red numbers on his alarm clock that tell him it's barely 6:31am. The light coming in through the windows is low and cold.

“Cloud.”

“Mm?” Blue eyes crack open. Cloud pulls away, propping his weight on one elbow right next to Vincent’s ribs. “Wha’ time issit?”

“Disgustingly early.”

“Why.” Cloud drops back onto the pillows, throws his arm over his face.

"There's something I need to do."

It takes Cloud a few minutes to respond. Maybe he dozes, maybe he needs that long to think it over. "Oh. Do you... need help?"

Though alone in his dreams, Vincent cannot remember feeling lonely. As if his friends were just around the corner, waiting for him to call them over. Or maybe they were there, just out of sight, because dream logic is nebulous and strange.

"I'd like that."

"Okay."

Vincent gets out of bed with some reluctance despite the low sense of urgency drumming behind his sternum. He grabs a change of clothes and heads down to the bathroom. After going through the morning rituals of hygiene, he goes into the kitchen to make coffee.

Cloud rolls out of bed much later, when the coffee's almost ready. He yawns wide, rubbing at the side of his head, as he makes a beeline for the feeble warmth put off by the coffee maker.

"What're we doing?"

"Coffee," Vincent says. "Then digging."

"And this couldn't wait?"

"No."

Cloud shrugs, accepting the answer and the cup of coffee. He takes it to the fridge for creamer--peppermint, this time of year. Vincent clutches his own steaming mug and peers out the kitchen window. It snowed overnight, a light dusting that will melt as soon as the sun finishes rising.

"Do you believe in second chances?"

"Uh." Cloud hesitates with his mug inches from his mouth, blinking guiltily off to the side. "...Yeah. Kinda caused a lot of problems, but, yeah."

"Good. Don't lose that spark."

Cloud blinks at him, shakes his head in bemusement, and murmurs something about _"not awake enough for philosophy"_. He drifts off to the bathroom with his sickeningly sweet coffee, leaving the brisk smell of peppermint in his wake.

Some time later, they stand over Cid's grave, bundled up in their winter coats, scarves, and gloves. Vincent stares intently at the ground, listening but not hearing anything. Cloud keeps casting dubious glances Vincent's way, but he hasn't voiced his doubts.

Everyone that was there the day the book store burned down didn't find it too weird that Vincent wanted to bury a plushie that looked a lot like the hellhound that saved their lives. In fact, they'd shown up and treated it like an ordinary funeral.

So, understandably, exhuming the "body" is a little disrespectful.

What he's about to suggest may verge into outright blasphemy.

"I need to give something of me before we dig him up."

"What?"

Vincent lifts his head and looks at Cloud. "In my dream, I plucked my eye out."

"Oh, hell no." Cloud backs up a step, waving his hand as if to ward the idea off. "I'm not letting you do anything like that, Vincent!"

"Ha. No." Vincent holds his hand up, the real one, fingers loosely curled upwards. "It's symbolic, I believe."

"Okay, so... what, spit on the ground or something?"

Vincent smirks, looking away. "Or something."

It's too cold for most of the things "something" could be, and he's not certain he wants to dabble in the old rituals in any case. Not when they've both been exposed to an entity that wouldn't let them go, might have left its mark on them for anything else watching. But he has blood to spare, so he peels his glove off with his teeth and pulls the sharpest kitchen knife he owns out of his pocket, offering it grip first to Cloud.

Who stares at him, agog.

"What the fuck, Vincent," Cloud says, but takes the knife all the same.

"Are you going to help me?" Vincent asks, producing the ziplock bag of first aid supplies he'd put together beforehand because offering blood to his dead hellhound is one thing, but bleeding out is another.

The sight of the supplies seems to calm Cloud. He takes them, holding them under his arm. "Okay, so you're not just making the kind of awful decision _I_ would."

"No."

Nodding as if that decides it, Cloud comes closer. "Will, uh, he need more?"

"I don't know."

"Well." Cloud rests the edge of the blade against Vincent's palm, considering. "Cutting on the hand is a horrible idea, you know."

"Probably."

Cloud lifts the knife, biting the handle to free both hands. He tugs at Vincent's sleeve, prompting him to shrug out of his coat. The dark long sleeve shirt beneath gets rolled up past the elbow. Cloud strips down the same, baring his left elbow so they can stand shoulder to shoulder with bare flesh lined up.

"This is stupid," Cloud says, right before cutting the inside of their arms, just below the elbow.

It hurts enough to make Vincent hiss and Cloud grunt. The blood wells up, hit and fast. The two of them hold their arms out over the grave, watching it splatter the snow with crimson. Nothing else seems to happen.

Vincent frowns, feeling like there's something he should say. Cloud raises his brows in silent askance, looking between the cuts and Vincent's face.

“Zydriel, I offer you my Sight,” Vincent says, after lengthy consideration.

It must be the right thing to say because the ground lurches beneath their feet. The blood melts through the snow and gets absorbed by the ground. There's a distinct clawing sound, and a muffled, startled bark.

Cloud’s eyes go wide and he drops the knife. “Uh, I don't have the whole… psychic thing, but he can have my blood?” He laughs nervously, fumbling to get the first aid stuff opened.

“I think he accepted.”

It takes a lot of willpower to stand there patiently while Cloud bandages them. And more not to start throwing dirt aside willy nilly, to let Cloud handle the digging because the younger man is faster with two arms.

Near the bottom, the grave rumbles, earth cracking apart. Cloud throws the shovel out of the hole and scrambles out after it, grabbing Vincent’s hand when it's offered. 

A huge black shape bursts up from the ground and lands in a wheezing heap. A single blazing blue eye regards them from the eye sockets of the beast’s skull. The other eye is red as blood, matching Vincent’s own.

_Ya fuckin’ buried me?! What the hell are ya, dogs?_

Cloud flinches, as though struck, raising muddy, gloved fingers towards his face. “He-- speaks?”

_And ya bound me to some damn kid?_

“You were dead, Cid,” Vincent says. “I didn’t realize his blood would bind you, but…” He looks between Cloud and the hellhound. “It only seems appropriate.”

_The fuck’s that mean?_

“Yeah, what--?”

Vincent shakes his head with a small, rueful smile. “Welcome home.”


End file.
